


The Crush

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [9]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Someone has a crush on Robin.Sort of a sequel to The Jack Jinx. It’s vaguely outlined but will be a slow burner, still almost entirely unwritten :)





	1. Monday Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Robin/gifts).



> Gifted to Blue_Robin, with whom the idea was hatched and who also has a treat for us in the pipeline. :)

“Hang on,” Robin said. “No, Thursday doesn’t work.” She peered at the Gantt chart on the monitor in front of her. “You can’t be buying drugs in your skivvies and at a City meeting in your suit at the same time.”

Sat on the office sofa opposite, Strike ran a big hand over his face, rasping across the beginnings of a beard that he’d deliberately not shaved all weekend because today was a pretending-to-be-a-junkie day. He was in his battered jeans and trainers, and a T-shirt so faded it was practically threadbare. Robin had grinned and told him it was obviously a dress-down board meeting today.

“Damn,” he said. “Right, I’ll have to get Barclay to do the drugs.”

“I could—”

Strike cut her off. “You need to stay with Redhead II,” he said firmly. “Until we get the City finance one a lot further on, that’s currently the best payer. I want you on that full-time.”

Robin sighed. “I feel guilty, hanging about in a swanky gym drinking coffee while you guys traipse the streets,” she said.

“Don’t. You’re the only one who can do that, and we couldn’t have taken the job without you.”

Robin nodded. She knew it was true. She took a sip of her tea. Spring sunshine slanted in the window and reminded her it needed cleaning. The glass was grimy. She made a mental note to do it later, and to open the window and let some of the winter stuffiness out of their little offices.

“Right, board meeting nearly over?” Strike joked. It was their Monday morning ritual, to catch up and set up the working week. “Any other business before we call the meeting to a close?”

Robin hesitated. “Well, actually...” She plucked up her courage.

“Go on.”

“Hear me out,” she said slowly. “I think you should let Barclay take over Nightclub Guy, full-time.”

“Why?”

“Well, for a start he actually is a druggie, kind of. He looks the part more than you do.”

Strike had to acknowledge this was true.

“And...” Robin went on, and Strike knew that this was the part she was hesitant to say, the part she thought he was going to object to. “Well, the bank account is looking pretty healthy. And—” she took a deep breath “—your leg isn’t. I know you don’t like me talking about it. But I also know you’re spending all day on Nightclub Guy, trying to fit in the paperwork over dinner and at the weekends, and spending half your later evenings tailing Mr Money and his secretary round fancy wine bars. It’s not good for you, Cormoran, and you don’t have to work so hard any more. I know you hate the paperwork, but why don’t you give Nightclub Guy to Sam, let Andy do a couple of evenings on Mr Money and man things from here for a week or two? Get all the paperwork up to date, rest your leg, have some evenings to yourself, wind down.”

“Before you interrupt,” she added hurriedly, “I’d just like to remind you that you were the one who said I had to be mentally healthy to be out there. And I’ve done lots of work to make sure I am. I’m just asking you to apply the same standards to yourself. If we got a big case now, a Chiswell or a Quine, you’d struggle to cope, and we’d need you. You need to be physically healthy for when the big cases come along. And I know you keep saying you want to pay me more, but I’m fine, I’ve got my flat, I’ve got enough to live on, and I don’t need the money. I do need my partner to be fit and well.”

She stopped, trembling a little, and took a gulp of her tea.

Strike regarded her levelly, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. “Finished?”

Robin nodded, flushing a little. Strike nodded too. “Right,” he said. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been thinking along the same lines myself. I’m getting nowhere with the drugs thing, I was thinking I should admit defeat and send Barclay in. So we’ll let him take that this week and see if he has a breakthrough. And you’re right, my leg is worse in the evenings, it’s the endless tailing Mr Money that’s doing the damage most of all. Let’s cut that down to three nights a week, we must have enough evidence for the wife by now, and I’ll ask Andy to do two this week and next. And I promise I’ll put my feet up. Happy?”

Relieved that he hadn’t bitten her head off, Robin nodded. ‘We’ve got to be honest with each other, or we’re screwed,’ he’d said, ages ago. And he was right. It was just a little harder to get him to be the one doing the listening.

“Happy,” she confirmed. “Right.” She turned her attention back to her monitor.

“Actually...” Strike hesitated. Robin looked up again.

“I had one piece of any other business myself,” he said, looking faintly awkward.

“Go on.”

There was a tiny pause.

“Are you doing anything on Saturday?”

Robin felt her eyebrows climb her forehead. She knew as well as he did that they had no daytime weekend work at the moment unless Mr Suspicious was away and wanted them to watch his wife in his absence.

“Just the usual. Grocery shopping, clean the flat, read magazines in the laundrette while I wait for my work clothes to wash.”

Strike grinned. “Think you could bear to give that exciting plan a miss for one afternoon and come to Bromley instead?”

Robin nodded, smiling too, puzzled. “What’s in Bromley?”

Strike sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed again. “Jack’s birthday party,” he said. “Lucy asked me to ask you. She said—” he waved his hand apologetically “—she said Jack hasn’t stopped talking about you since that day we took him to the Imperial War Museum. And please could you bring the Land Rover.”

Robin laughed. “The Land Rover?”

“That’s what he wants for his birthday, apparently. A ride in it.”

Robin’s hands flew to her heart. “Oh, bless him,” she said. “Well, I can’t possibly refuse. Saturday afternoon?”

Strike nodded.

“I’ll be there,” Robin said. “And I might as well pick you up, if I’m driving?”

Strike nodded again. “That would be great, thanks.”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself and the Land Rover. You literally are the present.”

Robin laughed again. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know timings.”

“Will do,” he said. “Think that’s us done?” Robin nodded, and Strike hauled himself to his feet and headed through to his office to start the working week.

 


	2. Jack’s Party part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was getting a bit long, so here’s half...

Robin’s heart fluttered a little as she sat in the Land Rover on Denmark Street, hazard lights flashing, waiting for Strike to come out of the building. She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous. They had often been places together in one vehicle or another. But this was for personal reasons, not business, and she was going to his sister’s house. It felt like quite a big step in their relationship somehow.

She glanced at her phone. Strike had answered her text saying she was here straightaway, and she was right on time. He’d be down at any moment. Even as the thought entered her head, the black door to their office building opened and Strike came out, allowing it to slam behind him. He wore a navy shirt and black trousers, and Robin recognised it as one of his work outfits. She herself had gone for a simple skirt and top, not wanting to be overdressed. Her skirt was olive green, slightly flared, her cream top fitted with long sleeves. It was unexpectedly cool today, so she’d opted for tights and boots. She suddenly felt both overdressed and underdressed, and sighed a little.

Strike grinned at her as he opened the Land Rover door and tossed a badly-wrapped present onto the bench seat along with his keys and phone. He hauled himself into the vehicle and slammed the door behind him, and Robin pulled smoothly out onto the road.

“Thanks for this,” he said cheerfully.

Robin smiled. “No problem.”

“I apologise in advance for the afternoon you’re about to have,” Strike went on. “My sister will quiz you, my brother-in-law is intensely annoying, and the kids will be high as kites on E numbers and processed food that they’re only allowed on birthdays.”

Robin laughed. “You make it sound so inviting.”

Strike laughed a little too. “I’ll buy you a glass of wine after, if you fancy it,” he said. “You’ll need one.”

Robin’s spirits lifted suddenly at that idea, and she tried not to think too carefully about why as they crawled along in the central London traffic. Mercifully it started to thin once they crossed the river and were heading south. Soon they were chatting about their various cases, and the drive passed pleasantly. Robin forgot her slight feeling of awkwardness. This felt like any other road trip they had been on.

She was looking forward to seeing Jack, having genuinely enjoyed their trip to the Imperial War Museum, and despite Strike’s misgivings, she’d always got on well with his sister. Greg she had not properly met, just a hi at the door when they had collected Jack for the trip. She wondered how many other people would be at the party.

All too soon they arrived in Bromley, and Strike directed her down a maze of side streets to the road of smart, squashed-together houses where his sister lived. Vehicles sat nose-to-bumper along both sides of the street, and it took a good ten minutes of driving up and down nearby streets to find a space.

Robin reverse-parked neatly, squeezing the Land Rover into a space that was barely a few feet longer than it, gratified by how impressed Strike was that she had managed to get into a space he had looked at doubtfully as they pulled up alongside. She grabbed her bag from the back, which contained along with her usual bits and pieces a bottle of wine for Lucy and Greg and a little Lego set wrapped neatly in shiny blue paper. Despite her partner’s assurances that the Land Rover ride was the present, she’d not been able to bring herself to turn up empty-handed. Strike shoved phone and keys into his pockets and lit a cigarette before picking up the present he had brought. Robin locked the car and they set off for Lucy’s house, two streets over, Robin suddenly nervous again.

Spring sunshine shone on them as they walked the leafy tree-lined suburban streets, dappled with shadow and scattered with fallen cherry blossom. Not for the first time, Robin reflected that parts of London could be beautiful if you could afford them. Then she found herself idly wondering if Bromley counted as London.

Soon Strike was opening the neat little gate at the front of his sister’s house. A tiny front garden with pots of flowers was crossed in two steps, and then Strike was pressing the doorbell. “You ready?” he murmured.

“Uncle Cormoran and Robin are here!” came a distant shout, and scampering footsteps raced to the door. A moment later it was flung open to reveal Jack in a Minecraft T-shirt and jeans, grinning from ear to ear, slightly unfocussed already, his small body humming with excitement.

“Come in!” he shouted, reaching to grab Robin’s hand and pull her over the threshold. Strike followed, amusement in his eyes. Lucy appeared from a side room and a couple more boys came racing down the hall. Chaos briefly reigned as introductions were made and Strike and Robin took their coats off, handed Jack his presents and were ushered through to the kitchen. Lucy reeled off a list of names of other parents and Robin tried to at least remember the women’s names. Jack had briefly raced off to open his presents.

Robin landed Lucy the bottle of wine. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said warmly.

“Oh, Robin, you shouldn’t have!” Lucy cried, kissing her cheek. “Thank you for coming, it’s sweet of you to give up your Saturday afternoon. Jack was desperate to see you again.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper that every adult in the room could clearly hear. “Between you and me, I think he’s got a little crush on you. You’re all he talks about since the Imperial War Museum trip.”

There was a chorus of awwws around the kitchen and everyone smiled indulgently at Robin, who found herself colouring a little, not at the thought of Jack’s possible crush, which was indeed sweet, but at being the sudden focus of the room’s attention. Behind her, Greg clapped her on the back jovially, making her jump. She hadn’t realised he was there, and stepped hurriedly sideways, not missing the way Strike bristled and moved forward slightly to protect her. He alone knew how she hated to be approached from behind. She felt suddenly very glad of his anchoring, protective presence, though why she should need it in a middle-class kitchen in Bromley, she couldn’t imagine.

“Lad’s got good taste, what can I say?” Greg laughed, and the other dads laughed too. Robin nodded and chuckled along weakly, and Strike scowled.

“Glass of wine?” Lucy asked Robin, and she realised the men were all holding cans of beer. She shook her head.

“I’m driving,” she said. “A cup of tea would be lovely, though.” Lucy nodded and went to fill the kettle.

“Greg, how’s the barbecue coming?” Lucy asked over her shoulder as she selected a mug and added a teabag. “Who’s watching it? Where are the boys?”

“It’s nearly ready,” her husband assured her. “I only came in to grab another beer, I’ll go and keep an eye.” He moved to the fridge and opened it, taking a couple of cans of Carlsberg out.

Jack raced back into the room, followed by three lads his age, waving a replica SA80 Army gun with delight. “Uncle Cormoran, did you have one of these?” he cried.

Strike grinned at him, a grin definitely broadened by Greg’s scowl. “Sometimes,” he said. “We didn’t carry them on every mission, but I’ve used one.”

“How many bad guys did you kill with it?”

Lucy turned from the kettle. “I don’t think Uncle Cormoran is allowed to say,” she said, shooting her brother a warning glare.

Strike accepted a can of beer from Greg. “Only as many as I needed to,” he said, winking at Jack, who cheered and ran out again, followed by his friends. Lucy pursed her lips and went back to making Robin’s tea.

Greg took his beer and a plate of burgers and wandered off again, out of the back door that led out to a long, thin garden. The other dads followed, and after a small hesitation so did Strike, leaving Robin with Lucy and two mums, Alina and Mel, though she couldn’t remember which one was which.

The conversation revolved around the upcoming school play and who had what parts and whether the parts had been allocated fairly. Robin listened politely, smiling her thanks at Lucy as she passed her her tea, and wondered how long she was going to have to listen to talk of school politics. She’d rather have been talking football and rugby around the barbecue with the men. Growing up in a houseful of brothers meant she could hold her own in a conversation about most sports, and it was infinitely more interesting than talk of school plays and costumes.

She was rescued by Jack, who came bowling back in to ask if she had brought the Land Rover, his excited friends in tow. Before Robin could answer, Lucy chimed in.

“Let’s do the barbecue first, Jack, it’s nearly ready,” she suggested, and Jack nodded and ran off again. Lucy smiled at Robin. “The boys have been playing for a couple of hours already. Everyone else will probably head off after the food, and you can just take Jack. I thought you’d prefer that to taking four excited boys.”

Robin nodded. “I don’t think I could, anyway,” she said. “Dad was a stickler for the law, and had a couple of seat belts fitted in the back for my brothers when they were younger, but I don't think there are four.”

The afternoon passed pleasantly. Greg and Lucy had arranged all the chairs in the house on the patio, and the adults sat and ate with plates on laps, the food spread out on the patio table. The children ate on a picnic rug on the lawn. The spring afternoon, whilst sunny, was cooling rapidly, and Robin was glad of her tights and boots, especially as she had to sit on the mat. Jack had saved her a space next to him, and she couldn’t turn him down. Blushing a little, she determinedly ignored Greg’s smirk, Lucy’s indulgent smile and the various small comments of the other parents as she sat next to Jack and the other boys. She asked him about his presents and he chatted away happily.

Strike sighed a little inwardly as he watched. Robin sat so elegantly on the mat, her legs bent and her boots tucked neatly together next to her hip. She ate and chatted to the boys, with that limitless interest in what they had to say that she had shown on the Imperial War Museum trip, and he found his thoughts drifting back to that day, wondering if he had imagined the almost-moment between them in the cafe. It had felt, just briefly, like it would be the most natural thing in the world to slide his hand over hers on the table, to smile into her eyes and know that she’d smile back, perhaps to lean forward and—

Greg nudged him sharply and he jumped, pulled from his reverie. “What?”

“I was just saying, Corm, Jack has good taste,” he said again, with a wink. The other dads laughed again. Strike glanced around at them all. They were clearly a couple of beers ahead of him.

The women had got up and were starting to clear plates. The men sat back, clearly with no thought of helping even crossing their minds. One of the other dads leaned forward, still grinning. “Can’t be bad, having that round the office all day,” he said conversationally to Strike. He nodded towards Robin, winking too.

Strike glared at him. “She’s a good detective,” he said firmly. “She’s invaluable to the business.”

The other man laughed. “Bet she can charm the pants off the clients, too,” he said. Strike scowled. There was so much more to Robin than her admittedly very evident charms.

Greg leaned forward. “Have you two really never...?” His question faltered to a stop at the irritated look Strike shot him.

Oblivious, his friend ploughed on. “Come on, you must have. Pretty girl like that? I would.”

Fury clenched Strike’s jaw. He thought of Robin’s ingenuity, her resourcefulness, her insights, her disguises, her compassion and kindness, all the many ways she had thought her way through cases, tricked or inveigled or charmed information out of suspects. He thought of her bravery, of the scar on her arm. And here she was again, how had she put it? “Reduced to a pair of walking tits”.

“Maybe some of us have a little more respect for the women in our lives,” he snapped, and hauled himself to his feet to go and help in the kitchen. He could hear the low whistle from one of the men as he marched away. He hadn’t helped, he knew, but was a family barbecue the time to lecture a man he didn’t even know on his misogynistic attitude? And he knew from Greg’s sly look that his behaviour was only increasing his brother-in-law’s suspicions that Strike did, in fact, share some of Jack’s feelings towards Robin, albeit in a much less innocent way. Greg’s suspicion was made even more infuriating by dint of it being true. Strike dumped his plate in the kitchen sink, promised to come back and help, and took his beer and his scowl off to the front garden to smoke away from the eyes of the children.

 


	3. Jack’s Party part two

By the time Strike returned to the kitchen, he had got his temper under control, and Lucy and her friends had stacked all the dishes into the dishwasher and switched it on. Only the grill pans and the wooden salad bowl remained. Strike shooed his sister gently from the sink and began to fill it with hot water.

“How are you, Stick?” Lucy asked, as the other mums drifted back outside. Strike shot his sister a warm smile. Despite how much she annoyed him with her desperate attempts to persuade him to conform to a life similar to the one she’d chosen, he was very fond of her.

“Yeah, good, thanks,” he said. “Dare I say it, the business is finally going well. Feels like it would take more than one thing going wrong to wreck it.”

Lucy laughed. “Well, that’s good,” she said. “You’ve worked hard enough over the last few years.”

Strike squirted washing-up liquid into the hot water. He didn’t miss Lucy’s wince at the amount he used, and some long-seated big-brotherly desire to bait his little sister prompted him to add another squirt for good measure. Lucy pursed her lips but didn’t say anything, picking up a tea towel and leaning against the counter next to the sink.

Strike set the bottle down again, grinning a little. “Yeah, it’s been hard graft,” he said. “But it’s paying off, finally. I just wish it didn’t come with people knowing who I am. It’s getting harder to work the bigger cases, I get recognised. But then the flip side is we get more smaller cases. People have heard of us.”

Lucy smiled to herself at his use of “us”. “So Robin’s a full partner now?”

Strike washed the salad bowl and passed it to her to dry. Lucy hesitated briefly, and then pulled the mixer tap across to rinse the worst of the clinging suds from it.

“Yeah,” Strike said, reluctant to allow the conversation to drift towards his partner, knowing Lucy’s need to pry.

“It was sweet of her to come today,” Lucy said. “Jack was very taken with her at the Imperial War Museum. He said she’d visited while he was in hospital?”

Strike had forgotten that that had come up in conversation at the war museum, and felt his cheeks colour a little at the memory of the hospital visit. He busied himself scrubbing the first of the barbecue trays thoroughly, bending over his task a little.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “She rang about work while they’d taken Jack off to have a scan, insisted on coming down when she heard I was on my own. Well, she just turned up, actually.”

Ominously, Lucy said nothing to this. Strike scoured a particularly burnt-on lump of fat on one of the rails. Lucy saying nothing was perhaps worse. He didn’t know what she was thinking then.

“Jack’s got quite the crush on her, you know,” his sister said fondly. “It’s all, ‘Robin has a truck like Uncle Cormoran used to drive. Robin came to visit me in the hospital. Robin’s got a scar on her arm like the one on my tummy.’ It’s sweet.”

Strike didn’t know what to say to this. He passed Lucy the finished grill tray and picked up the next one.

“He’s very like you, you know.”

Strike dropped the pan into the sink and water splashed over them both and ran down the cupboard front to the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, grabbing the dishcloth and wiping the worst of the water up. “It’s slippery.”

“Too much Fairy liquid,” Lucy couldn’t resist saying. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be mopping when everyone’s gone. The kids have trailed half the garden in here.”

Strike nodded and went back to scrubbing the grill pan, hoping Lucy would think his red cheeks were caused by his clumsiness now. If she had noticed, she gave no sign.

“Yeah, you both remind me of Mum,” she went on. “It’s the dark colouring, I think, and the nose. Well, the nose you used to have before you got in a boxing ring,” she added fondly.

Relieved, Strike laughed. “It’s a flattering comparison, but he’s a lot better-looking than his uncle,” he said. “Just keep him away from boxing and he’ll be fine.”

Lucy sighed. “He wants to do everything you do,” he said.

An image of Jack sitting next to Robin on the picnic mat, grinning up at her, slid into Strike’s mind and was firmly ejected again.

Jack chose this moment to come trotting into the kitchen, dragging Robin behind him, holding her hand tightly in his. Lucy smiled indulgently, and Strike concentrated on his nephew’s excited face, trying not to imagine what it might be like to hold Robin’s hand.

“Can we go for a ride in the Land Rover now?”

Strike’s gaze flicked to Robin’s, and her blue-grey eyes twinkled at him. “I’m ready whenever,” she said.

Lucy nodded. “I think the others are going soon,” she said. “Let me and Uncle Cormoran finish these dishes and then we’ll get organised.”

Jack skipped a little. “Want to see all my presents?” he asked, gazing up adoringly at Robin. She smiled warmly down at him and nodded. “I’d love to.”

Jack pulled Robin through to the living room. She cast an indulgent smile over her shoulder at Strike as she went that sent a jolt through him. Seeing her outside of work was...different. The careful boundaries he tried to maintain between work and his social life were eroded somehow, just as they were when they spent time at Nick and Ilsa’s.

He felt his sister’s eyes on him, and turned his focus back to the sink.

There was a flurried twenty minutes as the dishes were finished, goodbyes were said to the other families and Lucy bustled about fetching coats and kissing cheeks and making promises to see people soon, and then Strike and Robin, with Jack hopping about excitedly and waving his toy gun, put on shoes and coats and set off down the path.

“Come round this way, we want to see,” called Lucy, and Robin laughed.

“We will,” she promised. “Give us a few minutes.”

They strolled to the Land Rover. Jack skipped along between them, chattering excitedly and occasionally ducking between parked cars to shoot at imaginary bad guys. Strike could have gazed at the fond smile on Robin’s face all day.

Jack whooped when he saw the car and ran up to it. Robin caught him up and unlocked it, and lifted Jack into the front seat. She glanced at Strike. “Is he allowed in the front? I have no idea what the law is.”

Strike shrugged. “It’s done on height, I think, but I have no idea if he’s big enough,” he said. “It’s only residential streets, though. You won’t get above thirty miles an hour.”

Robin nodded and showed Jack how to strap himself in. She looked at Strike. “You coming?”

“I’ll sit the first loop out,” Strike said, patting the pocket where he kept his cigarettes. Robin rolled her eyes fondly and nodded. She climbed in next to Jack and started the engine. Jack had wound down his window, and Strike could hear him asking a million questions about what all the levers and switches were for as they pulled away smoothly from the kerb.

Jack’s face was a picture as Robin drove slowly up and down the residential streets, past Lucy and Greg’s and back round past Strike again. The detective could hear his nephew shouting what he presumably thought were Army instructions - “hang a left!” - and Robin laughing and obeying, taking the routes Jack told her and pretending to be his driver while he gunned down imaginary enemies from the window. Strike really hoped Greg was watching.

On the third loop he flagged them down and clambered a little awkwardly into the back, ungainly with his prosthesis and grateful that Robin carefully didn’t look at him, busy explaining the pedals to his nephew. Strike hauled himself onto the bench seat and found the seat belt.

“Did you drive a truck like this, Uncle Cormoran?” Jack asked eagerly.

“Similar,” Strike nodded. “We had some Land Rovers and lots of other trucks, depending on what we were doing.”

“What’s the biggest thing you ever drove?”

Strike pretended to think hard, and Robin grinned at the anticipation on Jack’s face.

“I drove a tank once,” he said finally. Robin felt her eyebrows lift just slightly. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what Strike had been like in his Army days, lithe and fit and in uniform, carrying weapons and driving military vehicles. She pulled her attention back to the conversation.

“For REAL?” Jack cried. Strike nodded.

“Hard to drive,” he said. “You can’t see much. But they’re pretty slow.”

“I’ve been in a tank,” Jack said. “They had one at this Army place we went to once. They let us climb in it.”

Strike grinned at him and ruffled his hair. “Then you know what it’s like,” he said. “Pretty squashed inside.”

“Can we go again?” Jack asked Robin, and she nodded and pulled away from the kerb again.

Then Strike and Jack played war games, calling instructions and locations of bad guys to one another while Robin drove, until Lucy flagged them down from her garden and declared it time for Jack to come in. The shadows were lengthening, the day ending, and Jack pouted but acquiesced. A space had appeared down the street a little from Lucy and Greg’s, and Robin pulled into it smoothly.

Jack turned to Strike in the back. “Can we go to the Tower of London?” he asked eagerly. “You said maybe.” He gazed at his uncle with imploring eyes.

Strike hesitated, and found his eyes seeking Robin’s, asking the question. They both knew that he’d have struggled at the Imperial War Museum without her help.

Robin shrugged a little and nodded, a slow smile creeping over her face at the thought of it, and Strike’s decision was made. He nodded as well, and Jack shrieked with delight.

“And you’ll come too, Robin, right?” he cried, and Robin laughed and agreed, promising to join them.

They climbed out of the Land Rover and made their way back to the house, Jack chattering happily about castles and towers and queens being beheaded.

Lucy offered them another cup of tea, but Strike looked at his watch and declined, apparently reluctantly though Robin suspected he was acting. But Lucy looked a little relieved, and they could see from the appearance of the mop and Greg bustling about with bin bags and recycling boxes that Lucy was in full-on tidying up mode.

“Thanks, Stick,” she said warmly, kissing his cheek. Then she turned to Robin and hugged her. “You, too,” she said. “You’ve made his day.”

“We’re going to the Tower of London next!” Jack piped up, and Lucy cast a surprised glance at her brother, who shrugged a little and nodded. “I’ll text you,” he said.

Delighted, Lucy hugged him again. “Take care,” she said. Greg, hovering behind her, stepped forward to shake Strike’s hand and kiss Robin’s cheek, thanking her warmly too. About to leave, Strike was surprised by a sudden hug from his nephew. He froze for a moment, then ruffled the little head fondly again. Jack pulled back, flung his arms around Robin briefly and then turned and scampered into the house.

“Take care, and thank you,” Lucy said again, and after a last flurry of goodbyes and waves they were free and walking back to the Land Rover. Strike lit a cigarette as they walked.

“Thank you, Robin,” he said quietly, and something in his voice made her blush.

“No worries,” she said lightly. “I’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

Strike glanced sideways at her. “You don’t have to say that,” he teased. But somehow he believed her. She truly had enjoyed herself, he could see it in her relaxed demeanour, her soft smile that made his heart ache a little.

Robin laughed. “No, I really have,” she said. “Beats sitting in the laundrette waiting for my clothes to dry.”

Strike laughed too as they clambered back into the Land Rover and headed back towards central London.

 


	4. Tuesday

Strike stood up from his desk, stretching, as Robin came in the front door of the office. “I brought sandwiches,” she called. “They only had egg salad or cheese ploughman’s left.”

Strike ambled through and started filling the kettle. Robin had dumped the sandwiches next to the sink and was stood at her desk, going through the post she had brought up with her. “Which do you want?” she said. “I’m easy, but I have a slight preference for the ploughman’s if you’re not bothered.”

“Happy with egg,” Strike replied, setting the kettle down and flicking the switch. “How was Pilates?”

Robin gave a light laugh. “Good, thanks,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m getting paid to get fit. Dream job.” She threw him a grin over her shoulder.

Strike grinned back and reached up to the shelf for a couple of mugs and the box of tea bags. “Any interesting post?”

Robin leafed through it swiftly. “Bills and circulars, mostly,” she said. “Ooh, that one might be Ritchie Rich paying his invoice, that would be good.” She set the letter aside and paused as she looked at the next, a handwritten envelope with a London postcode, addressed to her.

Strike looked at it sharply. It had been a long time, but he was still jumpy, since the Shacklewell Ripper case, about letters personally addressed to Robin. He peered closer. “That looks like my sister’s handwriting,” he mused, puzzled.

Robin slit the letter open and pulled out a handmade card. There was a letter inside it labelled “Uncle Cormoran” in wobbly writing, but the card was for her. She passed the letter across.

Her card had a childish picture of a robin on the front, brown with a red breast and a beady black eye, and inside Jack had drawn a very detailed picture of the Land Rover. Wobbly words thanked her for the Lego and the ride in the car. She laid a hand on her chest as she read it, deeply touched.

Strike’s letter thanked him for the gun. It was short too. He could imagine his sister standing over his nephew, making him write out thank you letters, determined to impose the order and decorum that she hadn’t grown up with. Strike had never written a thank you letter in his life.

He glanced across and saw Robin’s soft smile as she read her card, saw the bird drawn on the front of it. Robin grinned and showed it to him and he saw three big clumsily drawn kisses at the bottom of the message, and something he didn’t want to think about too hard twisted in his heart. He smiled tightly. “Sweet of him,” he said.

“I love it,” Robin declared, and moved her pencil pot and stapler to give it pride of place on her desk next to the coaster her mum had sent her from Harrogate.

Strike had turned back to the tea and was pouring water and squeezing tea bags. Robin frowned a little, sensing a slight change in the air, and picked up the other letter. It was indeed a paid invoice, a delightfully fat cheque. “He’s rounded up,” she said, showing Strike. “Must have been pleased.”

Strike nodded. “I should think so, we saved him a small fortune,” he said. “Let’s get that paid in today, it might clear by the end of the week and then we won’t go overdrawn when we pay Barclay and Hutchins.”

Robin nodded. “Thanks,” she said as he passed her her tea. She set it down next to Jack’s card. “I’ll go down to the bank after lunch.”

Strike nodded too, brisk, and took his sandwiches and tea and went back to his office.

Robin sat at her desk and opened her sandwiches and wondered why he hadn’t lingered today as he usually did. They didn’t officially take a lunch break, but often ended up eating together in the outer office and chatting about work. He must be immersed in the paperwork he was so determined to get completely up to date before he went back out on the streets. She was pleased to see he was walking better already after only a week of being based in the office.

She smiled at her card, and her thoughts wandered back to Saturday. She had had a good time, particularly enjoying seeing Strike and his nephew interacting so well, Strike ruffling the boy’s hair with his big hand. She could see how hard he was trying. Her partner wasn’t given to flights of fancy, wouldn’t be inclined to think that he had somehow been given a second chance, but he appeared to be taking that chance nonetheless.

Strike and Lucy had seemed to get on well, too. An image slid into Robin’s mind of her partner with his shift sleeves rolled up, hands in the sink, suds flecked across his hairy forearms, and she pushed it back out again, turning her thoughts instead to their trip to the Tottenham after.

True to his word, Strike had offered her a drink, but they hadn’t lingered. Robin had only been able to find a one-hour parking space on the streets near the pub, and had decided on an orange juice as she still had to negotiate Saturday evening traffic back to her flat. Strike had sipped one pint slowly, and had been quiet, almost formal, chatting a bit about Monday and work, thanking her politely when she left. She had missed their normal camaraderie and vaguely wondered what had happened.

She shrugged to herself. You never knew with men. It was probably something as simple as Arsenal losing that afternoon or some annoyance with his sister that Robin hadn’t witnessed. She reached out and wiggled the mouse to wake her PC up. She needed to write up this morning’s work while it was fresh in her mind.

In the sanctity of his own office, Strike tossed his sandwich wrapper into the bin and lit a cigarette. He, too, was thinking now of Saturday, with Jack’s letter lying on the desk in front of him. All afternoon at the party he’d looked forward to it just being the two of them, him and Robin, quietly in the Tottenham as always, away from the sideways looks and assumptions of his sister and her husband. But his mood had been ruined somehow by the party, by Greg’s mates, by the subtle insinuations that he might have Robin in his sights too. Suddenly the way he’d been feeling lately felt deeply inappropriate. Robin was his colleague and friend and no more, and he had no right to even wonder about or long for a personal relationship with her. In fact, he had a duty as her employer to let her keep her work and private lives totally separate, and here he was allowing - wishing for - the lines to be blurred.

He’d been glad she couldn’t stay long, feeling awkward suddenly and second-guessing their normal easy chat, overthinking everything before he spoke, scanning it for appropriateness, so that every sentence sounded stilted. He’d kept to work topics, allowed himself only one pint, and thanked her ridiculously formally when she left, cringing at the sound of his own voice. Then he’d ordered and swallowed a double whisky, declared himself a stupid fucker, and stamped off to find a takeaway curry and a six-pack of beers to take back to his flat.

Strike sighed and wished he hadn’t agreed to the Tower of London trip. He stubbed his cigarette out forcefully and turned his focus back to balancing the books. Ritchie Rich’s cheque was going to help enormously with that.

 

 


	5. Tower of London

For Strike, the Tower of London trip was much harder than the Imperial War Museum. He found cobbles incredibly difficult to walk on, the stone stairs were uneven and the ceilings were low in places, requiring him to stoop. He tripped a couple of times and almost fell once. Robin studiously left him to it, pretending not to notice, for which he was grateful, but it hurt his ego that she was seeing him struggle. He’d thought himself past worrying what she thought, his dented pride soothed by her accepting attitude towards his leg, but the stronger his feelings towards her grew, the more he hated to look weak in front of her. The only saving grace of this trip in his eyes was the amount of outdoor space for Jack to run around in, where his uncle could keep an eye on him whilst standing still. And he could smoke.

He was stood now, leaning on a set of railings and trying to rest his aching leg, shifting the weight off his stump as best he could, smoking a restorative cigarette, while Robin and Jack queued at a little kiosk for coffees. They had just descended from seeing the Crown Jewels, an exhibit Jack had had little interest in and whizzed through quite quickly, so that by the time they descended the many stairs and emerged into the afternoon light, Strike was pale and sweating with exhaustion and pain. Robin had declared a need for caffeine and marched off to the lengthy queue, and Strike was too grateful of a chance to rest to protest, despite strongly suspecting she was only calling a halt out of deference to him, and had deliberately chosen the kiosk with a long queue rather than the ice cream stand.

He idly watched the ravens, and kept half an eye on Jack who kept darting away from Robin and back again.

The office had been busy these last couple of weeks. Barclay popped in most days, scruffy and tatty, to report on his progress for Nightclub Guy. He’d successfully managed to infiltrate the drugs ring that was indeed targeting the various clubs their client owned, and was close to finding out who the ringleaders were. Strike wished he’d decided to send Barclay in sooner, but at least the case was finally producing results now.

Robin was out a lot, tailing Redhead II. Office-bound, Strike had run out of urgent paperwork to do and had resorted to going through old files, deciding which ones to archive in the boxes stacked on shelves in his office and which to leave semi-open in the filing cabinets in Robin’s. He’d managed to clear plenty of space out for fresh files, a task which had needed doing for a long time and which they’d been too busy for. It had necessitated him spending a long time at Robin’s desk, surrounded by the presence of her, from the neat little coloured paperclips in a pot by her keyboard to the post-it notes she used to colour-coordinate tabs in files for cross referencing, a habit that made flicking back to find earlier evidence the work of a moment rather than a tedious hunt. It was one of the many tiny things she had introduced to their ways of working that made life easier and saved time.

Every time he glanced up from a file, to think for a moment about whether it was to be archived or not, or to answer the phone, his eye fell on the card with its lovingly drawn robin, wobbly handwriting and three kisses. He thought of it again now, watching as Jack tucked his hand into Robin’s without hesitation or shyness, seeing the way Robin smiled down at him, and found himself looking away and scowling.

He needed to get back out on the street, he decided. He’d never wanted a desk job. Being stuck in the office all day stifled him. It was no wonder he was feeling crabby.

Robin was strolling back towards him now with two takeaway coffees. Jack skipped along beside her with a packet of Skittles.

“Thanks,” Strike took the proffered coffee gratefully.

“I put sugar in,” Robin said cheerfully. “I know we don’t normally, but I was feeling in need of a boost.”

Strike nodded, too tired to try to work out if that was really true or if she was trying to give him a pick-me-up. He was contemplating the walk back to the Tube with dismay. They’d had to leave the BMW some distance away.

“What’s your favourite colour Skittle, Robin?” Jack asked.

“Hmm. I think the red ones. Are they strawberry?” Robin replied.

“I like the yellow ones best,” Jack replied. “What’s your favourite, Uncle Cormoran?”

Strike looked down at him blankly. He didn’t think he’d ever eaten a Skittle in his life.

Behind Jack, Robin tugged at her jumper, raising her eyebrows at him in a signal. “Er, green,” Strike said, and Jack grinned.

“Mum likes the green ones too,” he said. “Must be because you’re her brother.”

“Must be,” Strike said. He gave Robin a grateful nod, and she winked at him and smiled, a cheeky look that made his heart lurch in his chest. He dragged his gaze from her hurriedly, afraid his eyes would give away what he was feeling, and slurped his coffee. It was too hot still, and scalded his tongue.

“Let’s find a bench,” Robin said. “My legs are tired after all those stairs.”

Now Strike was pretty sure she was humouring him, but his leg was aching too much now to care. He followed them to a bench opposite the ravens, trying not to limp too much, and they sat. Strike was aware that he sighed with relief to take the weight off his leg, and hoped Robin hadn’t heard.

Jack went to stand and watch the birds.

“I thought we might get the bus back to the car,” Robin said.

Strike looked at her sideways. “You don’t have to mollycoddle me.”

“I’m not,” she replied lightly. “Jack asked if we could. He wants to go on the top deck.”

Feeling churlish now, Strike nodded. “He’ll enjoy that.” He wished he hadn’t said anything.

Silence descended between them, and instead of feeling their normal, comfortable, quiet companionship, Strike found himself worrying. Had he been too abrupt, annoyed her? Was she wishing she hadn’t come?

If she was, she gave no sign of it. “I think we might be done here,” she said presently. “He’s not as interested as he thought he’d be, I don’t think. Once the Beefeater finished talking about beheadings, he wasn’t so bothered.”

Strike chuckled. “Yeah,” he agreed.

Jack wandered back over to them. He held out his Skittle packet shyly to Robin.

“I saved you my last Skittle,” he said. “It’s a red one.”

“Oh, Jack, that’s so sweet. Thank you,” Robin said. She took the packet, and reverently fished out the rather warm, sticky sweet. Jack had been clutching the packet for some time. Without hesitation she popped it into her mouth and smiled at him. “You remembered my favourite. It’s delicious.”

Jack grinned, pleased with himself.

Robin frowned a little as she chewed. “You know, I was thinking,” she said, slowly. “I’ve never been to the London Aquarium. Have you?”

“Yeah!” Jack said eagerly. “I love it. They have huge sharks.”

Robin’s eyes grew round. “Scary!” she said. “I’d love to see them. Think we could take Uncle Cormoran?”

Jack’s gaze leaped to Strike’s face, his eyes pleading.

Strike hesitated. The thought of another day out with Robin was tempting, so tempting, but also painful. Spending time together outside work like this was sweet torture. Their days out felt almost like dates, but for the presence of a ten-year-old and Strike’s desperate attempts to keep a professional distance while Robin chatted and smiled as normal.

Robin was looking at him too now. He couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse to get out of it, and he’d already hesitated too long. “Sure,” he said lightly, and Jack whooped.

Robin stood. “I think we should head off now, get you home,” she said to Jack. “It’s a long way back to your house, and Uncle Cormoran will be wanting to get back to watch the football.”

Strike gave an inward start that he carefully hid. Why would Robin know that Arsenal were the late kick-off this evening?

Ilsa must have told her. He’d had half a plan to meet Nick to watch the game. Yes, that must be it. No other reason for Robin to know when his team were playing.

He hauled himself painfully to his feet and the trio set off out of the grounds and towards the nearest bus stop.

 


	6. Saturday Plans

Robin looked up from her desk as Strike came in the main door carrying two takeaway coffees. He was wearing his suit, but had pulled his tie off and shoved it in his pocket. He plonked a coffee on her desk and she smiled.

“Thanks,” she said. “How was the very important finance meeting?”

Strike sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fascinating as ever,” he said drily. “I can’t believe these guys actually seem to find the stuff interesting.”

Robin laughed. “Any closer to finding out where the missing money is going?”

Strike shook his head. He moved over to lower himself onto the leather sofa, sighing a little to take the weight off his leg. He was much happier being back out on the various jobs, he reminded himself. A little pain was worth it.

“Whoever is doing it, and whatever they’re doing, they’re very clever,” he said. He gazed out of the window for a minute, lost in thought.

Robin sat and waited. She could almost see the cogs turning. She sipped her coffee.

Eventually Strike looked back at her. “What if we sent you in?”

Robin’s eyebrows raised. “Me? This one’s yours.”

“I know. But I’ve got an inkling...” Strike pulled a face. “You know I don’t generally hold with hunches. But what if the perpetrator is higher up than they realise? Like, is one of the people I’m actually meeting with? They’re going to know exactly what I do know and what I don’t, and what I’m looking for and where. It’s brazen, but...”

Robin nodded. “It would explain why they’re always two steps ahead of you, and why it’s so well hidden.”

“Yeah. So I was wondering, if we sent you in, planted you as a new PA to one of the guys—” He tailed off and grinned at her expression. “I know, I’m sorry. Reducing you to a secretary again. But it needs to be believable why you’d be in on all the meetings. They’d not hire another associate without the whole board assessing your CV and so on.”

Robin grinned back. “I don’t really mind,” she said. “It makes me appreciate this job even more, actually. To think that could have been my life, endlessly making coffee and being patted on the knee and buying presents for wives and mistresses.”

“Wives _and_ mistresses?”

“Oh, yeah, they’ve always got one of each. One guy I temped for had me go to Hamley’s for a present for his secret two-year-old son with his previous PA. His legitimate kids were 23 and 26.” Robin shuddered. “I don’t know why women do it, sleep with them. Think it’s the money?”

Strike laughed. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had any,” he said cheerfully. “Is wealth really that attractive?”

Robin shrugged. “Not to me,” she said. “It was important to Matthew. But I couldn’t care less if someone has money or not. He just needs to be a nice guy, and honest and kind.”

She broke off, flushing a little. Where had that come from? They’d been discussing the case. How had things strayed into personal territory so suddenly?

There was a pause.

Strike cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, I thought if you didn’t mind a spot of temping...”

“Sure,” Robin said quickly, glad of a change of subject.

“Okay,” Strike said, thinking. “So I need to work out who I think it definitely isn’t, and speak to them directly about sending you in. Put the word out that the trail has gone cold and I’m going to back off for a bit to spend time on another case. Hopefully they’ll get careless. You’d better catch yourself up on the case history.”

Robin nodded. “I’ll take the file home tonight if it’s up to date?”

“It will be by the end of the day,” Strike promised. “So, we could send you in next week. I’ll get in touch with Barclay and see how the drugs thing is going, might need him to pick up the slack on Redhead for a few days. Andy’s away next week, think he’s on holiday. He’s blocked out as unavailable in the diary for the whole week.”

“All sounds good,” Robin replied. “I’ll get what I’ve done on Redhead so far written up and send you some notes for Sam.”

Strike hauled himself up. “An afternoon of paperwork for us both, then.” He turned towards his office, hesitated, turned back. “I sort of told Lucy this Saturday might be okay for the Aquarium trip. Does that suit?”

Robin nodded. “Perfect. We’ll have earned our curry then,” she said, smiling.

Strike’s face brightened considerably. “Oh, is that this Saturday too?”

Robin rolled her eyes. “How does it surprise you every time?” she asked fondly. “It’s every other month, the second Saturday.”

Strike grinned. “You only remember because you and Ilsa discuss it,” he said. “Nick would have reminded me eventually. Probably on Saturday morning.”

Robin laughed and shook her head, and Strike ambled though to his office, draining the last dregs of his coffee as he went and dropping the cup into the bin by his desk. Against his better judgment, he was suddenly really looking forward to Saturday. An entire day and evening with Robin.

Chaperoned the entire time. Strike moved to his desk and sat down in front of the file that had consumed his working hours this week, that he needed to update and pass on to Robin. But even as he tried to focus on it, his mind wandered. He thought about the card that still took pride of place on Robin’s desk, and the soft smile on her face as she ate the sticky Skittle, and he scowled and pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He leaned back on his chair, reaching to push the window open, and blew the smoke vaguely towards the fresh air.

He couldn’t possibly be jealous of a ten-year-old. That would just be ridiculous.

Robin pulled the Redhead file from the filing cabinet behind her and opened it up. It was largely up to date, she just needed to fill in this morning’s work and write up a quick précis and a general pattern of their mark’s movements for Barclay.

Her eye caught on Jack’s card and she smiled. She had liked that day very much. And she had enjoyed the Imperial War Museum as well, and the Tower of London. She was really looking forward to the Aquarium trip.

She hoped Strike hadn’t guessed how much she enjoyed their almost-dates. She was doing her best to be friendly, but it would be so, so easy to read more into their comfortable companionship than was really there. Had she given too much away by revealing she knew when Arsenal were playing? She had somehow got into the habit of noticing their score each week and thinking of her work partner being happy or annoyed with the results.

She wondered why Strike had seemed hesitant about the Aquarium trip. Maybe he was tired of having his Saturdays taken up with spending time with his nephew when he could be... Robin had no idea what Strike liked to do at weekends when he wasn’t working. But he hadn’t seemed sure about this trip.

 _Oh, well,_ she thought. _I’ll not mention another one, and I’m sure he won’t either. That’ll be that. Just have to make the most of it._

She sighed and pulled her attention back to the file in front of her.

 


	7. Curry Night

Unusually, Strike and Robin travelled to Nick and Ilsa’s together on Saturday night. They normally made their own way there, then left together and said their goodbyes where their Tube lines split later. But seeing as Robin had been driving the BMW to pick up Jack, and by the time they’d travelled back from Bromley to the garage Strike rented it was already getting on for six o’clock, they just went straight to the Herberts’.

Nick raised an eyebrow slightly at the sight of them together on the doorstep, and Robin flushed a little, but nothing was said. Clutching wine and beer from the off-licence down the road, they went in and hung up coats, greeted Ilsa, petted the cats. The women were soon chatting in the kitchen while the excited cats wove around Robin’s legs and Strike opened a beer and went straight out to the patio to smoke.

“I took the liberty of ordering,” Nick said, “seeing as we all ordered exactly the same the last twice. It’ll be here soon.”

Even as he spoke, the doorbell rang. “Good timing!” he exclaimed, and went to answer it. Ilsa bustled about getting plates out of the oven and grabbing cutlery from the drawer. Robin poured the wine.

The four friends were soon sat down, chatting and passing takeaway dishes back and forth.

“So, how was the Aquarium?” Ilsa asked.

Strike and Robin glanced at one another. “Yeah, good,” Strike said. “He enjoyed it more than the Tower of London, I think.” Strike had enjoyed it more too, finding the slow pace and even floors much easier to deal with than the cobbles and stairs at the Tower.

Robin nodded. “He loved the sharks,” she said fondly. She winked at Ilsa. “And he had to hold my hand so I wasn’t scared of them.”

“Oh, he’s so sweet!” Ilsa cried, smiling fondly. Strike scowled slightly into his pint, and hurriedly straightened his face when he caught Nick looking at him sideways.

Robin reached over for the rogan josh and began to spoon some onto her plate. “He really is such a sweetie,” she said. “He loved all the displays, especially the jellyfish lit up in dark tanks. He was fascinated by the seahorses. And all he wanted to buy in the shop afterwards was a marble, a lovely cloudy blue one that he said was the same colour as my eyes.”

Nick cast another sly glance at his old friend as the women oohed and ahhed over Jack’s sweetness. Strike’s face was studiously neutral now.

“So, I missed the bloody Arsenal season round-up on the telly at lunchtime because of this trip,” he said, turning to Nick. “Did you catch it?”

Nick raised a slightly amused eyebrow and received a steely stare in response, warning against any further smirks or even thoughts on the subject.

“No, I didn’t, we were shopping,” he said. “And you know I wouldn’t voluntarily watch your lot anyway.”

Strike, determinedly ignoring Robin telling Ilsa about Jack’s card, and about him saving her his last Skittle on the previous trip, launched into a bantering discussion on the relative merits of Arsenal and Spurs’ prospects for the following season. Various rumours were doing the rounds about which foreign players their respective teams might buy in during the summer transfer window, and how this might affect the strength of their attacking or defensive line-ups. The two were soon immersed in arguments about the merits of certain players.

The rest of the meal passed in their normal chat and banter, the noise and merriment levels picking up as the wine levels went down, and Strike was thankful the subject stayed away from his nephew. Ilsa was telling Robin about her latest case at work, and he took the opportunity to escape to the patio with his cigarettes and beer for a moment of quiet.

Nick, well-versed with Ilsa’s case, packed up the empty takeaway cartons and then joined his friend outside, leaving the women to chat.

Strike greeted him with a nod, exhaling smoke across the garden.

“So, sounds like your dates are going well,” Nick said with a wink.

Strike glared at him, discomfited by the fact that Nick was so close to the truth of how he felt about their days out with Jack. “They’re not dates,” he said.

“No, no, just you bonding with your nephew, and Robin has nothing better to do with her Saturdays than spend them helping her boss babysit.” Nick grinned and Strike scowled.

“The Aquarium trip was her idea,” he said, but far from being deterred, Nick just grinned wider. “And there are no plans for any more.”

“I’m sure one of you will think of something.” Nick said. “Or Jack will. Sounds like he’s got quite the crush on Robin.”

Strike humphed a little but said nothing.

Nick laughed at his friend bristling. “Oggy, are you...jealous of a ten-year-old?”

Strike glared at him again. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be particularly sad.”

Nick grinned. “I notice you’re not answering the question.”

Strike huffed crossly and took another drag on his cigarette. “I am not jealous of a little kid,” he said firmly. “How could a ten-year-old possibly pose a threat?”

Nick looked at him with narrowed eyes. “A threat to what? You’re the one who keeps saying you’re just colleagues.”

Strike, realising he had backed himself into a corner, said nothing, but he could feel his cheeks growing hot. He wished he could just tell Nick to fuck off, but that would prove his point rather.

Nick laughed and clapped him on the back. “Cheer up, mate,” he said jovially. “At least you know how to win her heart now. Clearly you just need to draw her a picture of a robin and save her your last Skittle. Seems to be doing the job!”

“Oh, bugger off,” Strike muttered. “Go and get us some more beers.” He lit another cigarette from the end of the first.

Nick grinned amiably and turned towards the kitchen, paused and turned back.

“Oggy, you know I’m only ribbing you,” he said. “But do you—?”

Strike sighed and gazed across the garden, refusing to meet Nick’s questioning look.

There was a long pause.

“I’ll get some more beers,” Nick said quietly, and went back into the kitchen, thinking.

 


	8. A Few Weeks Later

When Robin arrived back from her first shift of pretend temping, Strike was conducting the Monday afternoon hoovering of the office. He waved at her as she came in the door, but carried on pushing the ancient machine around the carpet. Its noise precluded any attempt at conversation, so Robin hung up her coat and made tea while she waited for him to finish. Strike disappeared into his own office, trailing the cable, and Robin winced a little as he crashed about, clearly not taking too much care not to hit desk legs and skirting boards as he went. She took her tea to her desk and sat down. She woke her computer and called up a blank document to start writing up her notes from this morning to add to the file.

Eventually Strike finished, flicked the switch and the rattling roar died away. He reappeared in the outer office, dragging the hoover.

“God, it’s nice when that racket stops,” he said, bending to pull the plug from the wall so he could start to coil up the flex.

Robin, distracted for a moment by his thickly haired forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves, hurriedly pulled her gaze to his face. “It is,” she agreed. “We really must get around to buying a quieter, more efficient one.”

“This one works fine,” Strike protested. He finished winding up the cable and hung it over the handle. “How did you get on today?” he asked over his shoulder as he wheeled the machine out to the cupboard in the hallway next to the little toilet.

“Yeah, okay,” Robin called after him. “Nothing to report yet. I had to get all signed in and everything and learn the computer system as if I was a real temp. Got to look the part.”

Strike grinned at her as he reentered the office. “I hope they’re not going to make you do any actual work for them,” he said. “We’ll have to change them double.”

Robin laughed a little. “Well, like I say, I do have to look like I’m being a real temp. So I guess some typing and so on will be involved. At the moment they’re just getting me onto the systems so I can dig about a bit when no-one’s looking.” She waved her hand towards his mug, sat by the kettle. “I made tea.”

“Cheers.” Strike picked it up and leaned his hips back against the counter, cupping the mug in his hands.

He paused, looked as though he was going to say something, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

Robin grinned at him. “What?”

Strike gave a rueful chuckle. Robin always knew when something was on his mind. “Lucy,” he said succinctly.

Hope blossomed in Robin’s heart. No further outings had been suggested in the weeks since the Aquarium trip, and her Saturdays had felt oddly empty.

“What about her?”

Strike sighed. “You don’t have to feel any obligation, Robin,” he said. “But she badgered me until I promised I’d pass the message on. She’s organising a picnic in the big park near their house for a bunch of families, and a rounders match for anyone who wants to play. I’m going, because I didn’t think of an excuse fast enough, but you really don’t have to—”

“I’d like to,” Robin said quickly.

“Really?” Strike looked at her doubtfully. “Because... You know, I was ever so grateful for your help on the other trips, but Lucy and Greg will be there. I don’t need you.” Realising how that sounded, he hurriedly backtracked. “I mean, obviously you’re very welcome, I’d love to have you. I mean, Lucy would. Jack would, too. Well, I mean... You’d be very welcome,” he repeated. He stumbled to a halt, wondering if he could possibly have made more of a mess of a simple invitation.

Robin put her head on one side. She couldn’t quite work out if he wanted her to go or not.

“It sounds fun,” she said, cautiously. “I like rounders.”

_Of course you do,_ thought Strike. He would have laid bets she’d like playing rounders. Suddenly he could just imagine her in the fitness wear he’d occasionally seen her in on her way to or from Redhead’s gym, hair tied back—

He cleared his throat gruffly. “Well, Lucy asked me to ask you,” he said. “So...”

“Would you like me to go?”

There was a pause during which Strike desperately tried to work out what the right answer was. Or at least what the wrong answer was.

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Yes.” He tried to sound definite but not too eager.

She beamed at him, and his stomach lurched.

“Then I’d love to,” she said. “My Saturdays have been too quiet lately.”

A smile crept over his face, and he lowered his attention swiftly to his tea, missing the answering twinkle in her eyes.

“Right. Well,” he said uncertainly.

“I’ll pick you up as normal?” Robin said, as though this was something they had always done.

Strike nodded. “Thanks.”

She grinned at him, and suddenly he couldn’t look away, his gaze held captive by hers. The moment stretched just a little too long, and then Robin coughed a little and turned to her computer, small spots of colour blooming high on her cheekbones.

Strike cleared his throat again. “Right,” he said. “Notes to write up.”

Robin nodded. “Me too.”

Strike took his tea and hastened to his office, willing his errant heart to settle down in his chest. He hoped she’d wear the navy leggings with the silver stripes down the sides. _Stop it,_ he told himself firmly. But hope was stirring in his heart suddenly. He ignored it, but still it fluttered.

 


	9. A Picnic And A Game Of Rounders

Strike had wondered all week if inviting Robin to the picnic had been a good idea, despite it being at Lucy’s insistence. He was beginning to wonder how much of his sister’s interest in his business partner was down to Jack, and how much down to Lucy’s perennial desire to matchmake for him. What if she was trying to set him and Robin up? He was so used to resisting her attempts, he couldn’t quite work out how to behave when he actually wanted the outcome she might be trying to thrust upon him.

His doubts about the wisdom of another almost-date were both confirmed and banished when he climbed into the Land Rover late on Saturday morning. Robin wasn’t wearing sports gear, as he’d half hoped, but a sleeveless cream blouse and a pair of summery trousers in a pale blue that matched her eyes. Glancing sideways at her as she swung the Land Rover out into the traffic, her arms reaching across the wheel, his eye caught a glimpse of cream lace at the side of her breast and his libido surged. This was a terrible, fantastic idea.

He kept his eyes resolutely facing forward and made small talk as they drove to Bromley. Robin knew the way to his sister’s without needing directing now. Strike wondered how he had allowed the line between their work relationship and their growing personal one to become so blurred, having been determined to keep the two separate. He still worried that he should be doing more to keep the barriers up, but his resolve crumbled whenever he was with her, her relaxed and happy demeanour allowing him to believe that they could be friends, that this was fine, that friends and colleagues would be enough for him.

They left the Land Rover on a residential street near the park and went to find Lucy and Greg. They weren’t difficult to spot, a knot of parents arranging picnic mats and food with children of various sizes racing back and forth.

Strike and Robin added their picnic contributions and Lucy introduced them around. Jack gave a shout of delight when he saw them, and dragged his friends over to show off his famous uncle and his new friend.

The afternoon passed pleasantly. The children raced back and forth to the play area while the adults ate and chatted. Not knowing anyone else, Robin stuck close to Strike, and he found himself enjoying her company even more, allowing himself to imagine that this could be his life, Robin at his side, chatting idly in the sunshine, her hair glinting and catching the light.

Soon the food was being packed away and Lucy was calling the children back and setting up the teams for rounders. Jack was disappointed to learn that his uncle had no intention of joining in, but had declared himself official score keeper from the picnic mats. But Robin was to be on his team, so he was happy.

Strike settled himself on the picnic mat, his legs stretched out in front of him, reflecting not for the first time how difficult casual sitting was with the prosthetic. The unbending ankle made his foot sit at a strange angle, and the weight of it pulled at his knee. He shifted a few times until he was largely comfortable, but he was never going to be as at ease as he would have been on a chair.

The game was set up now, with folded jumpers serving as bases. Jack and Robin’s team were to field first, and Robin was fortuitously right in Strike’s eyeline, allowing him to watch her covertly from behind his sunglasses. It was hard to concentrate on his scorekeeping duties. She had rolled her trouser legs up a little and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She looked both very young and incredibly sexy, her focus on the ball. When it finally came her way, she chased after it and snatched it up from the ground, treating Strike to a glorious view of her arse as she bent right over, and then with a twist and a swing of her arm, she threw the ball back to the bowler.

Strike was surprised - and aware that the feeling was slightly sexist - that she could throw so well. Most of the women he knew, and indeed most of the women attending this game, could not. He supposed growing up with three brothers must have necessitated a lot of rounders and cricket. But his libido was far more interested in the way her blouse pulled tight across her chest as she drew her arm back to throw the ball, and he found himself hoping the ball would go Robin’s way more often. It did, several times, and he was quite disappointed when it was time for the teams to switch over.

He’d been marking the runs with a pen down the side of a discarded crossword. The teams crowded round for a break and a drink, chatting, and Robin came and dropped into the mat next to him, for which he was grateful. He had no wish to haul himself to his feet in front of everyone, knowing it would not be a graceful procedure, but had felt conspicuous being the only one sat down. He wondered if she had done it deliberately. He wouldn’t put it past her understanding nature.

All too soon, the players departed again and it was Jack and Robin’s team’s turn to bat. Jack was an excellent player, thwacking the ball quite some distance and scampering with a surprising turn of speed around the bases. He was delighted to make a full rounder due to some fumbling of the ball in the outfield.

Then it was Robin’s turn. Strike watched with interest. Would she be as good at batting as she was at fielding?

He was not disappointed. Robin hit the ball hard and accurately, earning herself a few admiring shouts from her team, and set off. Her canvas shoes gripping the grass well, she flew round the bases, ponytail swinging. Strike couldn’t help but be aware that her bra wasn’t quite up to the task of keeping everything under control as she shot across the back of the square between second and third base, and inwardly chastised himself for noticing.

There were shouts of encouragement to the fielders from their team members as the ball was apprehended and began to make its way back towards the square. Determination set on Robin’s face, and Strike knew that look. This was the Robin who was not going to be beaten.

Grinning, he watched as she rounded third and sprinted for home, knowing from the shouts behind her that the ball was bearing down on her. The fierce look of determination on her face was a picture as she accelerated and shot past fourth before it could reach her, skidding to a halt by the picnic mats and bowing to the cheers of her teammates.

Panting, she dropped onto the mat next to Strike, grinning and breathless. Her cheeks glowed and little beads of sweat stood on her forehead. Strike was mesmerised suddenly, unable to take his eyes off her. The breeze shifted a little and her scent washed across him, a heady mix of Robin and perfume and a hint of sweat that spoke directly to the carnal side of him. Suddenly he was wondering what her sweat might taste like.

She grinned at him, and he blinked and tried to get his wayward thoughts under control. “Well done,” he said, a little hoarsely.

Robin laughed. “I’d have been quicker, but...wrong bra,” she said with a wink, wrapping her arms across her chest. Strike coughed a little and looked away, his cheeks colouring, deciding there was no correct way for a man to respond to such a comment.

Robin grabbed her water bottle, swigged down a drink and returned to her teammates. A little alarmed, worried that he had nearly given his feelings away, Strike resolved to be a little more careful. He was aware that Lucy was keeping a subtle eye on any interactions between them, and he didn’t wish to give her any more food for thought.

He kept score diligently, trying to keep his eyes off Robin, although they would keep wandering back to her unbidden. All too soon, the game was over. Shadows were starting to lengthen, and several families declared an intention to leave. People bustled about, packing up the picnic. Strike finally clambered to his feet and began to fold the picnic mat he’d been sat on.

Robin pulled the band from her ponytail, letting her hair swing loose again. Strike almost sighed a little, watching the red-gold tresses swing free, wondering not for the first time if her hair felt as silky as it looked.

Jack gazed at Robin admiringly. “You have such pretty hair, Robin,” he said, and a few of the mums awwwed quietly.

Lucy smiled fondly and ruffled her son’s head. “She does indeed,” she said warmly. “Doesn’t she, Stick?”

Caught off guard, Strike felt a spike of anger for his sister. “Yes, it’s very...nice,” he said inadequately. _Half a degree in English and a reasonable grasp of Latin, and that’s all you can come up with, Strike?_ he asked himself. All of the adjectives that sprang to mind would have given him away, though. _Beautiful, radiant, exquisite._ Not words one could use to describe one’s business partner. _Nice_ would have to do.

Nevertheless, Robin blushed, a rosy tint stealing across her cheeks. She dropped her head forward to let the hair in question hide her face, but for just a moment she stole a shy glance at him that made his heart lurch. He pulled his gaze away hurriedly, aware of his sister’s scrutiny, and picked up his and Robin’s bags.

Chatting, the group made their way back to where various cars were parked in the streets between the park and Greg and Lucy’s house.

 


	10. Thought Process

The following week it just happened that Strike and Robin hardly saw one another. Robin was still working up in the City, pretending to be a PA, gently poking about in the company’s finances whenever she had the chance, trying to work out who had access to what and where the money was going. The trail was complex.

Barclay was still largely full time on the drugs ring for Nightclub Guy, so Strike was covering Redhead II. He hadn’t yet managed to come up with a convincing reason for being in a ladies’ gym - even the cleaning and maintenance staff were all female, as far as he could tell - so he was having to do it from afar. Long afternoons in the cafe opposite were very restful for his leg, though.

They also gave him time to think. Despite all he had done to try to talk himself out of his feelings for Robin, he had been utterly unsuccessful. But what his analytical mind was pondering now was whether it was possible those feelings were returned.

Idly stirring his coffee, he added it all up. That long-ago accidental kiss in a hospital car park that had made her blush. He’d dismissed her pink cheeks at the time as merely embarrassment at his clumsiness. She’d been married, after all. But it hadn’t been that long afterwards that she and Matthew had separated for good, and a few little things she had let slip had hinted that she felt she should have ended the relationship long before that. Before even walking up the aisle, in fact.

Which took him to the hug on the stairs at her wedding, when for one mad heartbeat he’d almost asked her to run away with him. He’d always been so thankful he’d resisted the urge to speak. Now he found himself wondering if she’d have agreed.

Then, after months and months of careful, neutral, professional interactions, things had softened again, initially back to friendship but then....

He thought about the hug on the side of the motorway, when she’d melted against him and let him comfort her before they were interrupted by the motorway police and she’d pulled herself back together.

He thought about the evenings at Nick and Ilsa’s, when she was slowly recovering yet again, soft and vulnerable and bare-footed and safe finally in the home of his best friends, a home he knew well was a haven when the rest of the world was too much.

He thought about the Imperial War Museum trip, and the way she had smiled at him and he could suddenly imagine reaching for her hand. Maybe he hadn’t imagined the spark that day.

He thought about last week in the office, when they’d gazed helplessly at one another for a few moments, bonded over mutual plans but neither able to make a move.

And he thought about Saturday, when he’d agreed her hair looked nice and she’d blushed and hidden her face.

Even the total pessimist in him would have to admit that that was a lot of signs. Small signs, but signs nonetheless.

 _What are you going to do about it, though, Strike?_ he demanded of himself. What could he do? She was younger, vulnerable, technically his employee.

And even if - if - it was acceptable for him to take action, what could be do? Could he just ask her out, after all this time? How could he phrase that in a way that made it clear he was asking her on a date, not just as friends? How could he go about letting her know, gently, that he wanted to reframe the parameters of their relationship, in a way that would allow her total freedom to say no, or even to claim not to have noticed?

Suddenly he could hear Nick’s voice in his head, feel that friendly slap on his back again. _“At least you know how to win her heart now. Clearly you just need to draw her a picture of a robin and save her your last Skittle!”_

Strike sat up straight suddenly. Maybe Nick’s joke in fact held the key.

Before he could finish the the thought, Redhead emerged from the front door of the gym, freshly showered, yoga mat over her shoulder. Strike downed the rest of his coffee and got up to follow her, wondering which friends she’d be meeting tonight.

...

The only thing wrong with her current post, Robin reflected, was the journey. She enjoyed being in an office, she was grateful for a sitting down job, the coffee from the coffee machine was excellent and the company of the other PAs relaxed and pleasant. She just wished it wasn’t over an hour home on the Tube. And the Central Line was so _loud_.

The train rattled through Tottenham Court Road. It wasn’t worth going back to the office tonight. She’d learned nothing new that needed writing up, and Strike was out tailing Redhead, who for once had deviated from her normal pattern and was heading to a new bar with people Strike didn’t recognise. _Trust her to finally do something interesting when I’m not there,_ thought Robin ruefully.

Her mind drifted back to the picnic and rounders match. To all of their not-dates, in fact. She thought about Strike complimenting her hair, about him protecting her when Greg made her jump, about his fierce male pride shown in the attempts he made not to look weak in front of her. She had three brothers, she understood a little of how men behaved in the presence of females they wanted to impress. In all the early years of their professional relationship and then friendship, her boss had never given the slightest indication that he even saw her as a woman, let alone was attracted to her. But since she and Matthew had split up...

It was nothing concrete, nothing she could put her finger on. It was the odd glance, a stealing of colour across stubbled cheeks, a gruff demeanour when perhaps one wasn’t warranted. It was the way he always bought her favourite biscuits when it was his turn to go to the shop. It was the way he went that bit further to the Co-Op down the next street to get the salad she liked when Tesco sandwiches were just round the corner. They couldn’t be out of Benson & Hedges in Tesco that often, they never were when Robin went.

But I can’t make a move, she thought. What if I’m wrong? What if I make a pass at my boss and it turns out he was just being nice? Hot embarrassment swept through her at the thought. No, she was going to need much more concrete evidence of any feelings he might have before she could dare take any action, even if she were ever brave enough.

The train rattled through the tunnels towards home, and Robin swayed along with its movement, lost in thought.

 


	11. Planes

“Tell me again what we’re seeing,” Robin said fondly to Jack as they stood in line at the cinema. Strike was at the counter buying the tickets, and she and Jack were queueing for popcorn.

“Planes film,” he said excitedly. “It’s like Cars, only it’s planes.”

Robin nodded as though she understood what he meant. She could see how excited he was to see it.

They reached the front of the queue and bought a large popcorn and two bottles of water, then moved aside to wait for Strike. He ambled across with the tickets, and laughed when he saw the giant bucket of popcorn.

“Are we going to eat all that?” he grinned.

“It’s mostly air,” Robin said, smiling.

They made their way to the theatre and found seats near the aisle. Robin went first, Jack sat next to her and Strike sat on the aisle so he could stretch his leg out. Cinema seats were not designed for someone who was six foot three, let alone someone who was six foot three and also needed room to manoeuvre.

They talked quietly through the trailers, munching popcorn, discussing which films they’d like to see, and then the movie began.

Robin enjoyed the film, and Jack was rapt. She found sitting so close to Strike slightly distracting, though. She caught the odd hint of his aftershave even over the stronger smells of nachos and popcorn, and the familiarity of it comforted but also warmed her. Once or twice their hands brushed as they both reached for popcorn. The first time Strike snatched his hand back, but the second time he playfully pushed hers away as though to take all the popcorn for himself, and she found herself grinning at him over Jack’s head. Her heart skipped as his eyes twinkled at her, and suddenly she was very much wishing that Jack wasn’t there.

Strike had been wishing Jack wasn’t there almost from the start. Now he had begun to wonder if Robin felt the same way as him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, hunting for clues. The cheeky smile she shot him when he pushed her hand from the popcorn made his heart jump in the same way his libido had jumped the first time their hands met, a jolt that had caused him to pull his own hand away in a hurry.

But whatever her thoughts and feelings might be, this was not the time or place to attempt to discern them. He still hadn’t worked out how he might get Robin alone in a suitable date-like situation to see, but a plan was slowly forming in his head. He resolved to turn his attention properly to the film.

It was late by the time they emerged from the cinema. They weren’t far from Lucy and Greg’s house, but Jack, after chattering excitedly for a few minutes in the car, dozed off. Robin pulled up outside the house, hovering because there were no spaces, and Strike climbed out of the car and went round to the back.

“Come on, buddy,” he said, and Robin’s heart melted a little at the gentleness in his voice. Jack stirred and mumbled. Robin watched as Strike gently tried to wake him, and then instead just braced himself between the door and the car and lifted him.

Robin sucked in a slight breath, worried for a moment about Strike’s leg, but he turned carefully, his elbow resting heavily on the car door, and then walked slowly up the path to the front door, Jack’s arms around his neck and his head flopped onto his shoulder, Strike with one arm across underneath him taking his slight weight and the other balancing them.

Robin waited, watching the road, while Strike handed the boy over to Greg with murmured voices and then returned to the car.

“Lucky he’s skinny,” Strike said, grinning, sliding into his seat next to her.

Robin, her heart full from seeing his tender care for his nephew, nodded and laughed a little. “They’re so very small when they’re asleep.” They set off down the road again.

“Still heavy, though,” Strike said, rubbing his knee a little as Robin pulled the BMW out onto the main road through Bromley and back up towards central London.

They drove for a while in silence. The journey was passing quickly with less traffic on the roads in the evening. It was a companionable quiet, and Robin relaxed into it. Too many of their quiet spells had been tense, lately.

“Good film,” Strike said presently.

Robin nodded. “It definitely held his attention.”

“I was thinking...” Strike said. He trailed off and paused.

“What?”

“There’s an outdoor screening of Jaws in a couple of weeks, in Hyde Park. Think he’d like it? If Lucy would let him watch? I loved it when I was a kid.”

“Maybe.” Robin made to turn towards the lockup where Strike kept the BMW, but he waved her forwards. “Go to your place.”

She glanced across at him.

“I’m not having you get the Tube home this late when you don’t need to,” he said. “I can drive from yours back to the garage.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded and carried on driving.

“So, what do you think?” Strike asked.

Robin wasn’t sure what the question was. “Do I think he’d like it?”

“Would you like to join us?” His voice was soft.

A smile played round the corner of her mouth. “I would.”

Strike nodded. “I’ll text Lucy, and get tickets,” he said. “We can take a picnic. You can have a glass of wine if I drive.”

“Or you can have a beer if I drive.”

“To be decided,” Strike said, and Robin grinned. She pulled up outside her flat and they both got out of the car. Strike came round to the driver’s side and she handed him the keys.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, quietly. “Again.” His eyes twinkled fondly at her.

Robin flushed a little. “No worries. I enjoyed it.”

There was an awkward pause. Robin coughed a little and stepped back.

“Well. Good night, Comoran.” Her voice sounded a little shaky.

“Good night, Robin.” His voice sounded warm. Turning away so he wouldn’t see her blush, Robin hurried to the door of her flat and dug in her bag for her keys.

Strike climbed into the driver’s seat of the BMW, sliding the seat back, and waited until she was in her door and had given him a little wave before he pulled back out into the traffic.

 


	12. School Play

“You’ve really gone beyond the call of duty with tonight,” Strike teased Robin as they stood on the street outside Jack’s school. They’d moved away from the gate a little so Strike could smoke. Inside the building, Lucy and Greg were waiting for Jack to finish changing out of his costume.

Robin smiled in the twilight. The sun had set and darkness was falling. “It wasn’t a duty,” she said. “I promised Jack at his birthday party that I’d come. He was so excited to get a lead part.”

Strike grinned. “Not often a lad gets to play a knight in full armour, even if it was only made of cardboard and tin foil,” he said. “No wonder it’s taking him so long to get out of it.”

Robin nodded. She’d enjoyed the play more than she had expected to, not having had high hopes of a school production. But Jack had delivered his lines loudly and well, if a little fast, and the girl playing the Lady of Shallot had done a passable impression of being dead, with only minor giggling as she was pulled along on the scooterboard that was meant to represent her floating down the stream.

“I love the way they find a part for everyone,” she said, smiling. “First lobster.”

Strike frowned at her, puzzled. “What?”

“It’s from Love Actually,” she replied. “One of the kids is first lobster in the nativity.”

Strike snorted a laugh. “I’ve not seen it.”

Robin grinned at him. “Philistine,” she said. “Best Christmas film ever.”

“Oh, now there I beg to differ,” Strike said. “The best Christmas film ever, according to my nephews, and I have to say I agree with them, is Arthur Christmas.”

“And I’ve not seen that!”

Strike grinned. “Well, if you’re still Jack’s favourite person at Christmas, I’m sure he’ll make you watch it.”

Warmth ran though Robin at the thought of her almost-dates with Strike carrying on to the end of the year. “Maybe I’ll make you watch Love Actually,” she said, then remembered it was a romcom and flushed a little.

Strike looked down at her, wondering what had caused a bloom of colour to steal across her cheeks, wondering how she could be any more beautiful.

“Uncle Cormoran, Robin!” Jack scampered over to them excitedly. Strike hurriedly dropped his cigarette into the gutter and Robin turned to greet the excited boy. He chattered questions and Robin answered in a way that made it clear she had listened carefully. Strike smiled, watching.

Lucy caught up and swept her son into a hug. “You were brilliant!” she cried, kissing him on the cheek.

“Muuuuuuuum!” Jack protested, scrubbing her kiss off his cheek with his sleeve.

Lucy laughed and ruffled his hair. “You’re Lancelot,” she said, fondly. “Lancelot is the handsomest knight with the best armour, all the beautiful ladies want to kiss him.”

Jack shot a cheeky sideways glance at Robin. “Does that mean Robin wants to kiss me too?”

Robin didn’t hesitate. “Of course!” she answered warmly, and bent down to kiss him on the cheek too. Jack giggled and ran off to where Greg was unlocking the car and loading up unclaimed raffle prizes.

“Got to go, sorry,” Lucy said. “Thank you both so much for coming.”

“Oh, Luce,” Strike said. He’d almost forgotten, distracted by the sight of Robin kissing Jack so readily and the uncomfortable thought that maybe he was, in fact, just the tiniest bit jealous of his nephew. “I’ve got tickets to see an outdoor screening of Jaws in Hyde Park next week if Jack would like to go.”

Lucy nodded. “I’ll tell him,” she said. “Thanks, Stick. Bye!” and with a wave she hurried over to the car where Greg was waiting, Jack strapped into the back.

There was another short pause. The night breeze washed over them, warm.

“Right,” Robin said, briskly. “Home again.”

Strike nodded, and followed her across to the BMW.

 


	13. Cancelled Plans

Robin arrived back at the office late on Friday. She’d barely seen her desk this week, spending all her time temping again. She just wanted to jot some things down before she went off to meet Vanessa for a drink. She felt mildly guilty, knowing Strike planned to go out and tail Mr Money tonight, but he’d dismissed her protests on the phone.

“Come on, you and Vanessa both free on a Friday?” he’d laughed. “You can’t turn that down simply because I’m working.”

“I feel bad going out when you’re giving up your Friday night,” Robin had said.

“So, you’re going to stay in and feel guilty rather than go out and feel guilty?” he’d teased. “There’s nothing you can do with this one, I just have to follow them about.”

Robin had laughed and agreed, so it was a quick stop in to the office to type up notes, then off to the pub.

Strike called a greeting when she came in and she answered, his deep voice bringing a smile to her face as always. He came through to the outer office as she was hanging up her coat and bag. He was already wearing his navy suit and a smart white shirt, freshly shaved and smelling of cologne. Not for the first time, Robin found herself wondering how on earth it had taken her so long to see how attractive he was.

He grinned at her. “Ready for girls’ night?”

Robin laughed. “You make it sound like a big thing,” she said. “Vanessa and I are actually pretty sedate on our nights out. I’ll be in bed by ten, you’ll see.”

For a moment Strike almost joked that he’d like to see, before he caught himself with a cough. Robin must have realised what she’d said, because she swung away from him, her hair sweeping across to hide her face. When had things become so awkward between them?

Strike cleared his throat. “I have bad news, I’m afraid.”

Robin, settling herself on her chair, looked up at him. “Oh?”

Strike nodded. “Jack doesn’t want to do the Jaws thing. Lucy rang me last night,” he said, carefully hiding his disappointment. “Um, I’m afraid you’ve been replaced in his affections. He has a new constant topic of conversation.”

Robin smiled warmly. “Is it a girl from school?”

Strike grinned. “No, it’s Pokemon!”

Robin laughed delightedly. “Oh, bless him!” she said. “That is a worthy rival for his affections. Oh, well.”

There was a short silence while the implications of this sank in. Her heart dropped a little. She’d been looking forward to the outdoor cinema trip. The weather forecast for the night was looking promising.

Then she suddenly realised that without Jack, all of the almost-dates would stop, and her stomach swooped. She’d refused to admit to herself how much she’d been enjoying them. And now there was no reason to carry on. She bit her lip a little, forcing down her disappointment.

“Yeah, shame about the Jaws thing,” Strike said. “The tickets weren’t cheap.”

“Oh, well. Can’t be helped. We can’t force him to go.”

“No, exactly.”

There was another pause.

Strike shuffled his feet. Robin wiggled the mouse to wake her computer up.

Strike cleared his throat a little.

“You know—”

“Yes?” Robin said, a little too quickly.

“Well. Be a shame to waste the tickets.”

“Absolutely. Especially if they were expensive.”

“It’s years since I’ve seen Jaws.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Oh, you should see it.”

“Yeah, I should.”

“Well, then. We could, maybe. You know. Go anyway.”

“We could. I really feel like it’s something I should see. A classic.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Mm.”

“So, that’s settled then?” his voice contained the slightest note of a question. “We’ll go anyway?”

“Yes,” she replied decidedly. “Let’s.”

“Right. Good.”

“Good.”

“Right.” Strike turned and went back into his office, a grin creeping across his face as soon as he was out of Robin’s sight.

Robin turned her attention to her computer, her eyes shining and her heart fluttering.

 


	14. THE DATE

Robin changed outfit three times the following Friday night. Did she want to be warm? Attractive? Demure? Inviting? It didn’t help that she had no idea whether or not this was an actual date.

Butterflies in her stomach, she eventually opted for jeans and a nice green top, slightly low-cut but not too obvious, with a cream jumper slung around her shoulders in case it got cool later. Strike had said he would organise the picnic, which had made her wonder again if he intended this to be an actual date, so she’d said she would bring pudding. She’d got a little selection of mini finger desserts from Waitrose on the way home the previous night, little Danish pastries and slices of cake.

Her heart skipped as she left her flat, box of desserts in hand and her handbag slung over her shoulder, and strolled along to the Tube station where Strike had suggested they meet.

He was leaning against the wall outside the station, smoking, a cool box by his feet, as she approached, and Robin was able to admire him covertly before he saw her. He wore dark trousers and his usual boots with a mid blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was freshly shaven once again, and she found herself hoping to smell that cologne that tantalised her senses when he was heading out to tail Mr Money.

He spotted her and grinned, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his heel. “Ready?”

Robin nodded, breathing in the heady scent of him and, indeed, that cologne as he bent to kiss her cheek. His jaw was smooth, his shirt freshly ironed. Maybe this was a date.

“Ready,” she said. “I forgot to ask you how scary the film is.”

He grinned again, bending to retrieve the cool box. “Not too bad,” he said. “It was scary when it was released, but the special effects haven’t stood the test of time well.”

They descended into the Tube station, chatting. Strike started to tell her about the snaps he’d got of Mr Money the previous evening, and suddenly Robin felt normal, relaxed in his company like she always did, her butterflies settling. Not a date, then. Silly to think it would have been.

Soon they were strolling across Hyde Park towards the big screen, still chatting. Strike showed their tickets at the barrier, and they went and found a place to sit, a little way back and slightly to one side. He removed a picnic mat from the top of the cool box and spread it for her to sit on. “Madam,” he said, with a grin and a sweep of his arm.

Robin sat, and smiled up at him. “Cormoran Strike, since when do you own a picnic mat and a cool box?” she teased.

He laughed. “Okay, some, or indeed all, of my kit tonight may or may not belong to the Herberts,” he said. “Including the ice packs, the corkscrew and the fancy picnic plates.”

“Corkscrew?”

“Yeah, that wine you like at Nick and Ilsa’s isn’t screw-top,” he said, pulling a bottle out and hunting for the corkscrew amongst the packets and boxes.

Robin’s heart lurched again suddenly. She did love that wine, but she’d only ever seen it in the little off-licence along the road from Nick and Ilsa’s. He’d been planning this. Maybe it was a date.

Strike screwed the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, and with a powerful twist pulled the cork out. Robin hurriedly dragged her eyes from his muscled forearms, her cheeks pink. She fussed with her jumper a little, settling it more securely around her shoulders.

Strike passed her a glass of wine in a stemmed plastic picnic glass, and Robin giggled. “You’ve thought of everything,” she said.

“Ilsa might have helped a tiny bit,” he admitted. “In fact, she just packed it. I only added the food.”

“Does she know Jack isn’t coming?” Robin regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Why bring that up? They were getting along so well, why risk making things awkward?

Small spots of colour swept across Strike’s cheeks as he dug in the cool box again. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “I assume that’s why I found these in the bottom.” He showed her a little packet of battery-powered tea lights.

Robin laughed again. “She even knew we wouldn’t be allowed real candles,” she said admiringly. “That’s an impressive level of organisation.”

“That’s Ilsa Herbert for you,” Strike said fondly. “Shall I, er...?” He gestured with the packet.

“I think Ilsa would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Robin said, grinning, so Strike opened the tea lights and switched them on and laid them out randomly on the mat.

A few announcements began, and no conversation was possible for a few minutes. Strike laid out the food - mini quiches, a sandwich platter, crisps, a fruit platter and some cheeses. He passed Robin a plate just as the film began.

They sat in quiet companionship and ate and watched. At last, replete, Robin put her plate down and sat back with a sigh. Strike gestured to her with the bottle, and she allowed him to refill her glass. She felt warm and happy. The night grew darker, the tea lights glinted, and Strike’s eyes twinkled at her in the gloom. They opened Robin’s desserts and shared them, and to her surprise Strike produced a flask and offered her a coffee to go with them. He really had thought of everything.

As the film progressed, Strike reached into the cool box again and brought out a packet of Skittles. He passed it to her hesitantly, and Robin took it, surprised to find the packet felt empty. She frowned down at it, puzzled, and looked back up at him. He was grinning shyly at her and her heart lurched.

“I ate them earlier,” he said softly, “but I saved you my last one.”

Robin looked down again, and tipped the packet up into her hand. A single Skittle rolled out. It was red.

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. “Cormoran...” she whispered, her gaze rising back to his.

He smiled gently at her and then indicated the big screen. “This is where it gets scary,” he said. “In the absence of Jack, would you like me to hold your hand?”

Wiping her eyes, Robin nodded and slid her hand into his. She’d never actually held his hand before. His hand was huge, warm and comforting. Without even thinking about it, she dropped her head onto his shoulder, and his hand tightened around hers just a little. She sighed against him, content, as the film began to draw to a close.

All too soon, the credits were rolling. Some people began to pack up at once, but most lingered over the end of their picnics. Slowly, reluctantly, Robin lifted her head from Strike’s shoulder. She glanced up at him shyly, and felt a jolt run through her at the way he was looking at her.

“So,” he said softly, with a boyish grin that melted her heart. “I saved you my last Skittle, and I held your hand to protect you from the sharks. I’m afraid I don’t have a marble to match your eyes. But I do have a question.”

Trembling, Robin gazed back at him. “What is it?”

“How come Jack gets a kiss and I don’t?”

Robin smiled gently. “He asked. You’ve never asked.”

He grinned at her. “And here was me thinking it was because he’s the handsomest knight with the best armour.”

Robin gazed at him, serious suddenly. She thought of him rushing to her aid at the end of the Quine case when she’d been in a car accident. She thought of him sending the ambulance when she was stabbed by the Shacklewell ripper. She thought of him travelling hundreds of miles to ask her to come back to work for him. She thought of him supporting her through her panic attacks. She thought of the millions of tiny ways he had supported and encouraged and believed in her when no one else had.

“Not all knights wear armour,” she said, and kissed him.

She heard and felt his breath hitch sharply as their lips met, and for a moment he froze. She kissed him gently, and felt his lips soften and part beneath hers. Her tongue crept forward to stroke his top lip gently, exploring the scar that had long fascinated her, and he made a tiny sound in his throat and pressed closer.

Strike’s hand came up from the mat and slid into her hair, tangling in its silky tresses, drawing her head closer still. Robin opened her mouth, inviting him in, and his tongue came forwards, meeting hers, sweeping into her. He tasted of sweet desserts and beer and a little of smoke.

Trembling, she answered his tongue with hers, kissing him back, quivering against him. Strike kissed her and kissed her, and then slowly drew back and smiled at her. “Okay?” he murmured.

Shy, Robin nodded. “Very, very okay,” she said.

Suddenly he grinned at her, making her laugh. “Nick was right.”

“What did Nick say?”

“That all I had to do was save you my last Skittle and draw you a picture of a robin.”

“Did you draw me a picture of a robin?”

“No, I can’t draw. But I did buy you one.” Strike delved back into the cool box and produced a postcard with a picture of a robin on it and handed it to her. Robin turned it over. On the back it simply read, “A robin for a Robin. C” and underneath, three kisses.

She smiled. “I love it. I’ll keep it on my desk at work.”

He grinned again. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

Robin looked back up at him, shyly. “So now what?”

“Well,” Strike looked down and picked up her hand from the mat, holding it in his large one again. “Much as I love my nephew, I think I like going out with you without him more than I do with him. So maybe we could...carry on with the dates even though he’s not interested?”

Robin’s heart leaped. “I’d like that.”

“And we could even do grown-up stuff like go for dinner and to the theatre.”

Robin cast him a cheeky sideways glance. “I’m sure there are all sorts of grown-up things that aren’t suitable around a ten-year-old that we could do,” she said, and giggled at the flare in his pupils as he caught her meaning.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured hoarsely, and kissed her again.

 


	15. Epilogue

A month later, Strike and Robin stood on Lucy’s doorstep. Strike held a bottle of red wine and Robin a box of chocolates, and between them, their hands that were not otherwise engaged were clasped together.

Strike smiled down at Robin. “You ready for this? Lucy went a bit bonkers on the phone when I told her.”

Robin grinned. “More than Ilsa?”

“Well, no. I don’t think anyone could have topped that reaction.”

They laughed, and then the door was flung open and Jack stood before them. “Uncle Cormoran, Robin!” he cried, delighted.

“Wow, Jack, I swear you’re taller and I only saw you a month ago!” Robin said.

Jack grinned. “Grown-ups always say that,” he said. “Mum says to come through to the kitchen.” He turned and trotted away.

“His voice is deeper,” Robin murmured. Strike nodded. He himself had undergone a huge growth spurt not long after turning ten. It didn’t surprise him to see such a change in his nephew. Suddenly he didn’t look so much like a little boy.

They made their way through to the kitchen, closing the front door behind them. Lucy turned from the stove to greet them. She kissed her brother on the cheek, and then grabbed Robin and hugged her tightly. “I’m so pleased,” she whispered in her ear, making Robin blush.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” she told them. “Grab a glass of wine, Robin. Greg will be back any moment, I just sent him to the off-licence for some more beers.”

Strike moved to the fridge and found a bottle of white wine, poured a glass for Robin and for his sister.

Lucy, still stirring a pot, half turned to smile at them. “So how did this happen?” she asked, waving a hand between the two of them.

“Well, it was kind of down to Jack,” Robin said, and Jack, who was reaching into the fridge for the orange juice, turned with the carton in his hand.

Strike grinned at him. “Yeah, Robin and I enjoyed our dates with Jack so much, we carried on after he stopped joining us,” he said, sliding his arm around Robin’s waist.

Jack stared at them. “Is Robin your girlfriend now?”

“Yup,” Strike grinned, and Lucy smiled softly.

“How?” Jack asked.

Robin coughed a little, but Strike addressed his nephew seriously. “I asked her out on a date, and she said yes,” he said.

Jack nodded as if he knew all about such things. “Are you going to get married? Then Robin can be my aunty.”

It was Strike’s turn to cough, and Robin grinned at his discomfort. “It’s a bit soon to decide that yet,” she said. “We have to get to know each other first.”

“But you’ve known each other for ages.”

Lucy came to their rescue. “Yes, darling, but not as boyfriend and girlfriend. Daddy was my boyfriend for two years before we got married.”

Jack thought about this as he poured his juice.

“Well,” he told his uncle. “I think you should definitely marry Robin. She’s ace.”

Strike grinned and hugged Robin closer. “I know, mate,” he said. “I know.”

The front door slammed, and Lucy turned towards it. “Ah, here’s your dad,” she told Jack. “Could you go and fetch your brothers, please, and tell them it’s dinner time?”

Jack nodded at his mum, grinned at Strike and Robin, and scampered off.

 


End file.
